


lemme whisper in ya ear

by stevenstamkos



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Miscommunication, Rimming, Slow Burn, well more like friends with benefits to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 07:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10657902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevenstamkos/pseuds/stevenstamkos
Summary: It’s fun and easy, taking what he wants from Jo, and nothing changes.That’s the beauty of what they have. Nothing has to change.





	lemme whisper in ya ear

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: So, there was a kinkmeme prompt forever ago about hate sex with one person saying sweet things in a different language. BUT Nate/Jo, fuck buddies but Jo is saying all kinds of feels in French.
> 
> Warnings: Both Jo and Nate are 17 in the beginning, and then everything that falls between March 28 and September 2, 2013, Jo is 18 and Nate is still 17. Also there is very minor Johnny/Monny in the background.
> 
> All my love to Allie for translating, and Meghan and El for holding my hand as I freaked out about plot. You guys are the best and I couldn't have finished without you!
> 
> Title from "Wait (The Whisper Song)" by Ying Yang Twins (Idk this song tbh I just know the one line lmao)

**November 4, 2012**

**Rimouski Océanic 6 - 5 Halifax Mooseheads (SO)**

The fuckbuddies thing is sort of an accident, in that Nate is friends with Jo and is also self-aware enough to know that he’d probably enjoy fucking him if the opportunity ever arose.

The first time is in some random hotel room in Rimouski, fumbling kisses and fumbling fingers, their mouths and bodies slotted inexpertly together.

Jo slams into Nate’s room, red-hot and stinging from the loss and the end of their fourteen game win streak. His mouth is an angry pout, brows furrowed.

“I should’ve scored in the shootout—”

Nate catches him before Jo kicks something over because he’s a goddamn child with a temper. “Chill dude, it’s over. We just gotta think about the next game.” It’s not like Nate scored either, his shootout attempt sailing wide of Desrosiers in net.

For a second, Jo looks like he’s going to keep complaining, but it’s early in the season and they’re good, they’re still good. He leans into Nate’s space, tilts his chin and bites Nate’s lip before kissing him. After that, it’s easy to fall into bed. Both beds are empty, Darcy probably off killing time somewhere else, and there’s Jo, hot and heavy, all knees and elbows as he climbs on top of Nate—

Nate tries to remember it all, the perfect bow of Jo’s body as Nate grinds against him and sucks a bruise onto his neck, the little hiccuping sounds he makes. They get each other off quickly, almost too caught up in the emotion of the loss to know what they’re doing, except Nate knows. Knows that if it’s anyone but Jo in the room with him, they would be shouting at each other as they button-smash their Nintendos, not rubbing off against each other, their boxer briefs bunched around their knees and the sound of their panting too-loud in the room.

“ _Tabarnak, Nathan, c'est si bon, je l'ai voulu depuis si longtemps—_ [Fuck, Nathan, that’s good, I’ve wanted this for so long—]”

The words are pressed into Nate’s hair, Nate’s skin, and then Jo is shuddering above him, perfect and speechless and so fucking beautiful it hurts. Though that might just be the blue balls. Nate forgets what he was thinking like two seconds later anyway.

Jo lays on the bed like a useless lump afterward, eyes half-closed and drowsing. His arm is flung over Nate’s chest, fingers relaxed. “ _J'ai n'ai jamais pensé que cela se passerait comme ça_ [I never thought it would happen like this],” he mutters.

“What was that?” Nate asks, distracted. He is cleaning off with a wad of tissues and when he’s done, he throws it at Jo’s face.

“What the fuck,” Jo says and pinches Nate’s nipple.

That is the start, at least. That is not the end.

 

 

**December 26, 2012 - January 5, 2013**

**2013 IIHF World Junior Championship, Ufa, Russia**

Jo talks a lot of shit. He doesn’t ever shut up really, chattering away on the ice and cursing on the bench, texting nonstop in his car, laughing loud and careless when they’re out like he wants the whole world to hear him.

“I’m going to tie you to the bed if you don’t shut the fuck up and go to sleep,” Huberdeau says one night, and Jo laughs in his face like it’s a challenge.

They actually do end up tying him to the bed, Mo sitting on his legs and Huby using his belt to tie Jo’s wrists to the headboard. Nate walks into the room in the middle of it, Jo kicking frantically at the mattress, and decides he doesn’t want to know.

The next night though, he thinks about it, thinks about how pretty Jo would look all blushing and defiant and still so full of fight even when tied up and naked. Thinks about it as he fucks him in short uneven strokes, fingers digging into Jo’s powerful thighs holding him pinned and still as they fall apart.

In between his moans, Jo babbles in French, a constant stream of what is probably dirty talk.

“ _Nous sommes parfaits comme ça, mon coeur. Toi et moi, nous sommes si bien comme ça_ [We’re gold like this, sweetheart. You and me, we’re so good like this].”

“You know I can’t understand you, right?” Nate says.

“ _Tabarnak_ [Fuck],” Jo says thickly in response and clenches down on Nate’s dick.

Tabarnak indeed. Nate bites the corded muscle of his neck and grinds in, deep.

It’s fun and easy, taking what he wants from Jo, and nothing changes.

That’s the beauty of what they have. Nothing has to change.

“Jo is quiet and good,” Nate says much later during the Top Prospects Game, when their fourth place finish is a lingering memory and doesn’t sting as much as it did on the ice in Ufa. And it is true; Jo is always quiet and good, for about thirty seconds before his brain catches up to his dick and he starts whispering filth in Nate’s ear. He isn’t quiet after that, mouth either too full of words or something else, but that’s not something Sportsnet really needs to know about.

 

 

**January 16, 2013**

**CHL Top Prospects Game, Halifax, Nova Scotia**

It’s a thrill getting to host the Top Prospects Game in their home arena, all that raw talent on the ice with them from all over Canada and the States with the odd European import thrown in. Nate and Jo and Fucs all wear red, because that’s their destiny, isn’t it? To wear red, Canada Red, Mooseheads Red, always on the same red, red team. Team Cherry all the way, baby.

“You’re a better captain than Seth Jones,” Jo tells him when the rest of the prospects arrive.

“I know,” Nate says.

They spend a few days getting to know everyone, learning their team’s chemistry and doing on-ice tests. The day before the game, they’re doing almost nothing but skating for the scouts, down the length of the ice and around obstacles, back and forth until they’re all winded and ready to drop. It’s a fucking bagger, and it leaves Nate exhausted.

“I’m gonna take a knee,” Jo gasps, leaning heavily on his stick, and then he sinks to one knee on the ice. Nate joins him.

He gets Jo on his knees again later that night in their shared hotel room, all big sweet eyes and pretty mouth stretched around his dick.

“That’s it, baby, like that. God you’re so fucking good.”

Jo moans something, muffled, and Nate yanks a little on his hair. It’s growing in long, curling around Nate’s fingers and giving him something easy to hold onto. He loves this, loves seeing Jo at his mercy getting spit and precome on his lips and chin. Loves looking down to meet Jo’s eyes where he’s staring up at Nate from beneath his lashes, shameless as he swallows his cock.

“Fuck,” Nate mutters, and Jo’s lashes flutter at the praise.

He reaches up and taps Nate’s hip, and Nate lets go, lets Jo ease up and catch his breath. The head of his dick trails over Jo’s cheek, and Jo turns his head to chase it for a second, mouthing at the tip.

“Your mouth, babe. God, I fucking love it, it’s so good. You’re so good,” Nate coos.

Jo’s eyes are dark and unfathomable when he looks at Nate. “ _Je souhaite que tu m'as amais assez pour m'embrasser_ [I wish you loved my mouth enough to kiss me],” he says. His voice is low and hoarse, rasping a little. He sounds fucked out, used. It’s unbelievably hot, especially the throaty French.

Nate runs his hands through Jo’s hair and guides his head back, and Jo goes down easy.

(They get shut out, fucking _shut out_ 3-0 by Team Orr. It’s the first shutout in CHL Top Prospects Game history. Gotta get those records one way or another.)

 

 

**February 12, 2013**

**Halifax Mooseheads 7 - 0 PEI Rocket**

“That was hot,” Nate says breathlessly into Jo’s ear, licking at the perfect pink shell of it. Jo’s hips shift in his lap in search of friction. “That was so fucking hot,” Nate says again, because it bears repeating. Jo’s hockey has always gotten him worked up; it’s no wonder their friendship took this turn.

“Did you watch the whole thing?” Jo pants. His fingers are digging into the meat of Nate’s shoulders, a little painful, but he’s also rubbing up against Nate’s dick, so no complaints.

Nate nods, mouth working its way down Jo’s neck. “Was in the stands, don’t worry. Your third goal was a fucking beauty.”

A hatty for Jo and a shutout for Fucs, what the fuck, they’re outrageous. Nate only wishes his leg weren’t injured, so he could’ve been on the ice cellying with the boys. Instead, he digs into Jo’s pants, jerking him off roughly through his boxer briefs.

“Oh,” Jo sighs. “ _Embrasse moi_ [Kiss me].” His head is hanging, forehead resting against Nate’s collarbone like he’s too overwhelmed to even lift it. He rocks into Nate’s hand impatiently and bites his shoulder.

“What was that?” Nate teases.

Jo lifts his head, eyes glassy. His mouth is red and wet and pouting. “Kiss me.”

It’s a demand, bossy and arrogant but still somehow fragile at the edges. It’s the demand itself that is surprising though. They don’t kiss, haven’t kissed in the three months they’ve been doing this. Not since the first night in Rimouski. Kissing is like, way too real for this shit.

“Nathan,” Jo says, biting his lip, and Nate pulls his hand out of Jo’s pants to curl it around the back of his neck and bring his head forward.

This kiss is tentative, almost gentle, nothing at all like the biting kisses they shared the first time they did this. Jo’s breath comes out shaky over Nate’s lips, long lashes throwing shadows across his high cheekbones. Nate is struck by the sudden realization that Jonathan is beautiful. Not just hot or fuckable, but like, really fucking _beautiful_.

It doesn’t take long for the kisses to turn sloppy though, both of them hard and full of teenage impatience. Jo’s fingers shake a little as he works Nate’s pants open, and Nate laughs against his lips.

“Easy babe,” he whispers, pulling Jo’s dick out of his boxer briefs, and he kisses the prettiest moan out of Jo’s mouth.

Now that they’re actually kissing, he wonders why he was so opposed to it before. It’s not like this has to change anything about what they’ve been doing. Kisses don’t have to actually mean anything, right? Just part of sex, nothing else.

Jo pulls his mouth away to bite at his jaw as Nate begins stroking him, all light, teasing touches. “What, I get a hatty and all I get is a handjob?” he says.

God, he is so demanding. Nate grins. “Alright, what do you want?”

A tiny furrow appears between Jo’s eyebrows as he thinks. "Remember that time you said you’d eat my ass?”

“That was a joke!” Nate says, but Jo is already climbing off his lap and heading upstairs, and Nate is already following.

 

 

**May 26, 2013**

**Portland Winterhawks 4 - 6 Halifax Mooseheads**

Nathan is drunk as a skunk, and the Memorial Cup is heavier than it looks.

He doesn’t fuck Jo after the game even though victory sex sounds _amazing_ , because they are both too drunk for it and Jo is a hyperactive little shit. Someone does drink all of someone else’s booze though, which is pretty much in the spirit of victory.

“You fucker,” Nate says and then sloppily kisses Jo.

Jo kisses back, laughs his scrunchy-nosed high-pitched laugh and staggers off to go steal someone else’s champagne.

“Atta boy Mac!” Fourns yells in his ear, and then he plants one on Nate right where Jo’s kiss is still lingering.

This is fine. Everyone is kissing everyone else, so. It’s not like Jo’s kisses are special or anything.

 

 

**June 30, 2013**

**NHL Draft, Newark, New Jersey**

They do fuck at the draft, of course.

They don’t share a room, but Nate’s roommate is too hyped about being drafted to the Flames to stick around, so Nate has the room all to himself for most of the night. That means he gets to drag Jo inside, still wearing his Lightning jersey and cap, and strip all that Lightning gear off him until he’s the Jo that he knows.

“Hey, be careful with that—” Jo says, reaching for his jersey, but Nate is already tossing it over the dresser and tumbling Jo onto the bed. (His own bed, because Nate isn’t an asshole.)

“You’re gonna have so many,” he says between kisses. His own jersey is discarded at the foot of the bed, and Nate can feel the material through his socks.

Jo is pouting up at him, eyes a little glazed and mouth spit-slick. “That’s the jersey I got drafted in though. Only one of those.”

“But sex,” Nate whines and is gratified to feel Jo’s fingers tighten at the nape of his neck.

There are too many damn buttons on Jo’s dress shirt. They’re so little, and Nate’s hands feel big and clumsy.

“What do you want tonight?” he mumbles against Jo’s neck once they’ve gotten naked enough.

The sigh that comes out of Jo’s mouth is almost wistful. “Everything.”

There are so many options, too many things to do before they go their separate ways for the summer. Nate isn’t sure if they’ll see each other before training camp, doesn’t know if the next time they’ll see each other will be months later on NHL ice. They could still be sent back to Halifax for another season together, but it’s not a sure thing, and Nate doesn’t _want_ to go back.

He hops off the bed to grab the lube from his bag, and when he gets back, Jo is staring at him with an unreadable look in his eyes.

“What?”

A little smile crosses his face. “ _Vous êtes si bon. Vous allez être incroyable, tu sais. Ils vous aimeront_ [You’re so good. You’re going to be amazing, you know. They’ll love you],” Jo says softly. He holds Nate’s eye for a second before his eyes drop, a rosy blush spreading over his cheeks and down his chest.

Nate really wants to know what sort of filth Jo just said to make him blush like that.

“You’re shameless,” he says, pinning Jo’s hips to the bed and popping the cap. “One day I’m gonna understand all your dirty talk.”

He hopes Jo is okay with that, the implication that this isn’t going to end with the draft. That they’re gonna keep doing this, if they get the chance.

“No fun in that,” Jo says lightly. “It’s better when you don’t understand.” He gives Nate a cheeky grin, the jerk, and then puts his hands on Nate’s ass.

And Nate would argue, he really would, because he’s not a loser in any way, but there are better things to do with his mouth. Things like making out as he lubes Jo up, feeling Jo’s dick drag against his belly with every thrust of his fingers.

“Wait, let me just,” Jo says faintly when Nate pulls his fingers out, and he rolls over onto his hands and knees.

“Uh, you sure? It’s probably the last time we’ll get to for a while. Don’t you wanna—”

“It’s fine. C’mon.”

Whatever, sex is sex, so Nate goes with it. It’s insanely good anyway, fucking Jo from behind, pressing his face to Jo’s sweaty back and feeling him arch underneath him.

Jo takes it beautifully, eyes closed and head hanging between his shaking arms. He keeps the noises to a minimum tonight, is mostly quiet until they’re done.

As soon as Nate pulls out, Jo rolls over and collapses into the pillows, avoiding the wet spot on the sheets.

“Okay, so what’s wrong?” Nate asks.

“Nothing’s wrong. It was good.”

“You’re all quiet. And you don’t usually like getting fucked from behind.”

“I like it.” There’s a petulant note in his voice.

Nate frowns, struggling up onto his elbow so he can look at Jo. For his part, Jo stays nestled in his pillows, eyes closed. “I mean, I know you like it. I just mean like, you like it more when we’re facing each other. I thought you’d wanna do that tonight, since you know, never know when’s the next time we can do this again."

“What, so you can read minds now?”

He touches Jo’s hip briefly. “Come on, I know everything about you,” he teases, trying to lighten the mood.

Jo’s eyes open. “Not everything,” he says quietly. For someone who just came like five minutes ago, he’s awfully tense.

They stare at each other for a long moment.

“Are we fighting?” Nate asks. He feels wrong-footed, doesn’t know how this started or why. They just got drafted today, first and third overall; their lifelong dreams are practically within reach. They’re supposed to be _happy_.

Jo closes his eyes again, but his body finally relaxes. “Nah. Let’s just forget about it. I’m being stupid.”

“Okay.” Nate settles back onto the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of Jo’s chest. He’s almost drifting off, warm and hazy and sex-drunk, when he hears Jo’s voice, nearly inaudible.

“ _Tu vas me manqué tellement, chéri_ [I’m going to miss you so much, darling].”

He considers asking what Jo said, but it sounds nice, the soft French washing over him. Blindly, he reaches for Jo’s hand.

That’s when Sean Monahan, sixth overall pick to the Calgary Flames, walks into the room, and Nate drops Jo’s naked ass over the side of the bed.

“Oh,” Sean says flatly and walks right back out.

 

 

**December 26, 2013 - January 5, 2014**

**2014 IIHF World Junior Championship, Malmö, Sweden**

It’s hard keeping up with friends back in Halifax once Nate makes the NHL, but he does it. He keeps his phone close, texts the boys on and off and watches their games when he can. What can he say? He misses them.

Jo sends him the occasional blurry selfie and long emoji-filled messages whenever Nate scores. It’s nice, knowing that Jo is watching him too.

He’s in Chicago, trying to find sleep, when his phone pings with a text from Jo.

_going 4 gold baby_

He smiles into his pillow. Jo must’ve just woken up, must be on his way to the rink right now.

 _good bring it on home for us_ , he sends back.

Jo sends him half a dozen kissy face emojis and then nothing else. Nate sets his phone down and closes his eyes, even though staring at his phone’s bright screen ruined any chance of him falling asleep right away.

He thinks about how he hasn’t fucked Jo in months.

They haven’t done anything outside of normal long-distance friendship for months, actually.

They don’t sext cause that would be weird. That would mean like, they’re pining or some shit and feelings would get involved and things would get complicated. Nate likes Jo, likes his hockey and his body, but there are _rules_ when it comes to these things. Like, they both know that the sex is because it’s convenient when they’re together, and sexting would mean that Nate is working way too hard to get laid by someone who isn’t even in the same country as him.

All they do is text and skype like normal friends.

 

 

**February 8-19, 2014**

**Sochi Winter Olympics**

Coming back to Hali halfway through the season is a breath of fresh air, icy cold with a hint of snow and the taste of the harbor. He has almost two weeks during the Olympic break to unwind and rest his battered body, more bruised and dinged up than he ever got during juniors.

The Mooseheads are away in Moncton, and Nate catches the game at his house with his Q subscription. It’s an ugly game, the Moose falling apart as soon as Ivan Barbashev scores for the Cats. The final score is 6-2 for the home team, and Nate winces as he watches his old teammates file off the ice.

He sleeps like the dead and wakes up in the morning to Jo banging into his room like the completely uncivilized animal that he is.

“Hey dude,” Nate rasps, and then Jo is cannonballing into his bed, crushing him in a mess of flailing limbs. “Get the fuck off!” he chokes out, laughing.

They tussle a bit, but it is totally unfair because Nate’s legs are still tangled up in the covers. Jo easily pins his legs to the bed so he can’t kick, and Nate stares up at his stupid beaming face, nose red from the cold.

“Your mom let me in,” Jo says simply instead of a hello, and then they’re kissing.

It’s sounds stupid and cliche to say that it’s like nothing’s changed, because Jo is loads better at kissing now than he was before. He’s probably getting some practice in with someone on the team. Still, it feels like no time has passed, like they can pick right up where they left off even though they haven’t seen each other in person since June.

Jo pulls back for a moment to say “Eugh, morning breath,” before Nate drags him back, reaching for his pants.

There are too many places he wants to put his mouth and his hands, so Nate settles on Jo’s neck for his mouth and his dick for his hand. God, he’s missed the way Jo tips his head back, eyes closed and mouth open, whenever Nate puts a hand on him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs as Jo’s fingers dig into his biceps. His own morning wood is getting uncomfortable, but Nate can ignore it for now.

Jo reaches between their bodies and rubs Nate’s cock through his boxer briefs. “Want.” His voice breaks a little as Nate traces the head of his dick where it’s wet with precome.

Fuck, that’s so hot. Jo always sounds so hot when he’s getting messy.

“Say something in French,” Nate says abruptly, pausing in his strokes, and Jo stops rocking against him.

“What? Why?”

“Just do it.” No way is Nate admitting that he’s missed hearing Jo moaning in French. No way.

Jo pulls back to squint at him for a moment, thinking.

“ _J'ai te manqué_ [I missed you],” he says carefully. Nate hums, encouraging, and starts moving his hand again. Jo’s next words come out in a rush, stuttering a little. “ _T'ai vraiment manqué. Uh, merde, tes mains et ton bouche et ta pine. Et—Et tes yeux, et ton hockey. J'ai um, j'ai manqué faire cela avec vous_ [I really missed you. Uh, fuck, your hands and your mouth and your cock. And—And your eyes, and your hockey. I um, I missed getting to do this with you].”

Nate groans and strokes faster, breath coming ragged as Jo works his boxer briefs down and finally gets his hand on Nate’s bare cock. This is messy and too-quick, both of them swallowing up each other’s noises so Nate’s parents don’t hear, hands moving tight and sure and a little too dry but so fucking good.

Nate has missed this, missed Jo’s little gasps and the feel of his strong hands, the way he shudders when Nate digs a thumb under the head of his dick and traces the vein on the underside. He’s missed this, stupidly, and it feels like he can’t claim it back fast enough.

“ _Tu vas me tuer, Nate_ [You’re going to end me, Nate],” Jo pants, and that shouldn’t be what does Nate in, a half-whined sentence in a language he doesn’t even understand, but it is. It fucking is.

They lay on his bed after Nate gets Jo off, a little stunned with how fast and frantic that was, Jo still wearing his Mooseheads hoodie with his jeans and underwear bunched awkwardly around his thighs.

“Is it going to be like this every time we see each other now?”

Nate shrugs, reaching for some tissues. “Probably not, nah.”

 

 

**January 17, 2015**

**Tampa Bay Lightning 3 - 2 Colorado Avalanche (SO)**

They fucking devour each other the second they’re in Jo’s new condo.

The funny thing is, Nate figured that he would get used to seeing Jo only a few times a year. He figured it would be a little weird at first, but this is their future now, and he can make friends on the Avs, right? He had a whole year to wrap his head around the idea of Jo not being within arm’s reach, and when they’re apart, they’re okay. They’re normal.

Seeing each other though? Is like a fucking hurricane. Because that’s what Jo is.

“Get on with it,” he hisses, blunt nails digging into Nate’s shoulders, and Nate laughs.

“Learn some patience, babe.”

Jo pouts, fingers flexing, but he relaxes and stays quiet. Mostly.

Nate loves this, getting Jo underneath him after a hard-fought game. He has everything he could want: the NHL, his friendship with Jo, and a willing body to fuck in Tampa whenever he’s in the city. This arrangement is clean, efficient, and convenient. Nobody loses.

“Nate…” Jo whines, and then he says some really rude words in French. Those Nate knows. He did play in the Q after all. The French babbling is starting pretty early tonight, which basically means that Nate wins at life and sex.

“You like that?” he murmurs, and the gorgeous way Jo bares his neck as he throws his head back is a perfect answer.

“ _Tu es incroyable_ [You are wonderful],” Jo says breathlessly, and Nate kisses his thigh.

“Take it easy, tiger.”

He slides another finger into Jo, crooks them and licks over his balls and sucks at the base of his dick. Listens to Jo cry out in surprise, spread legs shaking as he strains to hold himself open.

“ _S'il te plaît, Nate_ [Please, Nate],” Jo says, and Nate knows that too, knows how pretty Jo sounds when he’s begging regardless of what language it’s in. “ _Baise-moi, je te veux tellement_ [Fuck me, want you so bad].”

“Translate that,” Nate says absently, but he’s not really paying attention to Jo’s words.

Jo keeps up a steady stream of pleading French, brows drawn tight and mouth tense as Nate fucks him fast and probably a little too hard.

He comes so hard he thinks he blacks out for a moment.

When he comes to, Jo has cleaned up and is pulling the Lightning-blue covers over himself, tucking himself under Nate’s chin like he belongs there. He throws an arm over Nate’s waist and clings like the half-octopus that he is. (Nate sometimes thinks that maybe Jo should’ve been drafted to Detroit, when he’s not wishing that Jo was in Denver.)

“ _Ange_ [Angel],” Jo mumbles sleepily, and his arm tightens around Nate.

It’s too hot for this (seriously, what the fuck is Florida winter weather), but Nate snuggles closer, pressing a kiss to Jo’s temple and burying his face in his soft hair. He’s going to wake up suffocating on Jo’s hair again, but whatever.

Predictably, he wakes up with a mouthful of Jo’s hair and the feeling of Jo bucking unhappily underneath him.

“Get off, your fat ass is crushing me,” Jo mutters, batting weakly at Nate’s arm.

“You love my ass,” Nate says, but he does roll off, face-planting into the cooler side of the bed. After a moment, he feels the familiar sensation of Jo sneaking a grope. “Knew it.”

“Yep,” Jo says, popping his ‘P’ obnoxiously, before he drags himself out of bed, stride a little stiff. “Gonna shower, have to get to practice.”

“Okay, save some hot water for me.”

“Not joining me?”

For a second, Nate weighs the extreme allure of sleeping some more against the even stronger allure of getting Jo wet and soaped up and squirming in his arms. He kicks the covers away. “Okay, yeah, good idea.”

Jo’s smug grin is fucking stupid, but he’s also naked, so Nate can forgive him.

 

 

**February 22, 2015**

**Colorado Avalanche 5 - 4 Tampa Bay Lightning**

Nate nets his first NHL hat trick on home ice. He is alive, lit up, on top of the world. The crowd is roaring, the Avs are leading 5-4 after his third goal, and Nate feels untouchable when the final horn sounds.

In his car, Jo kneels between his legs and kisses him fast and brutal, hair damp and curling under Nate’s fingers. It’s a tight fit in the backseat, but Nate can’t wait, buzzing under his skin. He catches Jo’s face when he pulls away, tries to drag him back.

“Not in the truck, come on, drive us home first,” Jo says. There’s a laugh in his throat, in his eyes, and he is so fucking beautiful.

“C’mere,” Nate says, a little unsteady, a little petulant. “Come on, it’s my first hatty. Don’t I get a reward?”

Jo comes easily, like he always does, dipping back in to kiss Nate until he’s nearly dizzy with it. “You can get your reward at home.”

“Will you say nice things to me in French if I wait?”

“Yeah, duh,” Jo says, and Nate can’t kick him out of the backseat fast enough.

 

 

**July 2015**

**NHL offseason, Cole Harbor, Nova Scotia**

_come over_ , Nate texts, because he’s bored and horny and he misses Jo.

 _i’m in ste agathe wtf_ , Jo sends back.

_get on a plane and come sit on my dick_

_romantic_

“You okay?” Sid asks, dropping onto the bench next to him.

Nate jumps, stuffing his phone into the pocket of his hoodie. “Yeah. Just taking a break to change the song.”

He watches as Sid wipes the sweat from his nose with the towel slung over his shoulders. Sid is older and wiser and probably knows a lot more about life than Nate does.

“You had a weird look on your face,” Sid says, almost apologetically, like he’s afraid he’s prying.

“Just miss my friend, I guess. Haven’t seen him in a while.” He shrugs, trying for nonchalant. “We only really see each other during the season. And he’s Eastern Conference, so.”

“Twice a year.” Sid nods sympathetically.

“Yeah. I thought, maybe we could work out together this summer at least.”

“That’s a good idea.”

Yeah, Sid thinks it’s a good idea. Nate waits until Sid goes back to his mat before whipping out his phone again.

Jo comes to visit for two weeks, and they don’t really get much working out done. In between their crazy nights though, they go to the Scotiabank Center, laugh at old memories and reminisce about being eighteen, so young and full of hope.

“Good times, eh?” Nate says, staring at their Memorial Cup poster.

Jo sucks in a deep breath and lets it out loudly. “Yeah,” he says when he’s done. “Better times.”

 

 

**January 20, 2016**

**Colorado Avalanche 2 - 1 Buffalo Sabres**

Nate had been saddened when he found out that Jo was too injured to play in their October meeting in Tampa. He had been annoyed on Jo’s behalf when he heard that Jo was reassigned to the minors and was therefore missing their January 12 meeting. But when he got the news this morning—

“You got suspended?”

“It’s stupid,” Jo says, and Nate can hear all the frustration and petulance that he’s used to in Jo’s voice. “I asked for a trade in November, and they haven’t moved me. It’s a mess.”

It is indeed a mess. Nate listens, silent and supportive, as the whole story rushes out of Jo.

It’s a shocker, an ugly situation with no happy ending for Jo. Nate knows that the league’s machinery is going to grind up his friend and spit him out, and there’s no telling what state Jo will be in when all is said and done.

He wonders when Jo’s once bright, burning star began to fall. Wonders why he never saw it coming.

“So you’re hanging out in Syracuse now?”

“Yeah, but I’m heading back to Montreal tomorrow. I’m gonna keep skating, just waiting for them to trade me.”

Nate suddenly realizes that they could be together, that there’s nothing tying Jo to Tampa Bay or Syracuse right now. “Come to Denver,” he blurts out and then wishes he’d sounded less idiotic.

Jo is quiet for a long moment at the other end. His voice is low and careful when he speaks. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Nate.”

No, it's probably not. Nate doesn't need a distraction right now, not when his team is trying to make a second-half push for the playoffs.

(But sometimes he wants a distraction, and Jo is the best one that he knows.)

 

 

**February 17, 2016**

**Colorado Avalanche 3 - 2 Montreal Canadiens**

When beat reporters from Tampa contacted Nate for a statement, he didn’t think they would actually publish it. Like, who gives a fuck about what one of Jonathan Drouin’s junior teammates has to say about him? Everyone, apparently.

Jo calls him for the first time since he dropped off the face of the earth a month ago. It’s to yell at him.

“You didn’t have to speak up for me,” Jo snaps, all pissy. His breath is coming ragged and sharp over the phone, a little distorted. Unhelpfully, Nate’s brain reminds him that this is also what Jo sounds like when Nate has just fucked him through a truly mind-blowing orgasm. Not now, brain.

“Dunno what your problem is,” Nate says.

“I don’t need any favors from anyone.”

“It wasn't a favor.”

He can hear Jo breathing unevenly for a long minute.

“Are you okay, Jo?”

There’s a little sound, like a hiccup on the other end. “I know what they’ve been saying about me.” He sounds very small suddenly, fragile and unhappy. It makes something in Nate’s throat squeeze tight, like he can’t get air. “No one respects me or even likes me. They’re saying no one will want me after this.”

“That’s not true.” Nate can’t imagine anyone not wanting Jo. Bright, sweet, talented, fierce Jo—how could anyone _not_ want him? “You’re good, you know? You’re solid.” He blows out a breath. “You read the articles, right? When I said I’d love for you to come play with me in Denver, I wasn’t lying. I really would like that. Dream come true, I swear.”

He listens to Jo sniffle a little and pretends that he doesn’t hear it.

“Thanks, Nate,” Jo whispers. “No one’s been in my corner for a long time.”

“ _I’m_ in your corner, you know? I’m always in your corner.” _I care about you_ , he doesn’t say, even though he thinks it. “Once you get traded, people will forget about this.”

The trade deadline comes and goes, and Steve Yzerman doesn’t trade Jo. Nate doesn’t talk to Jo much, too caught up in the whirlwind of his own season, but he does hear that Jo reports to Syracuse.

A month later, when the Lightning recall him, Nate sends a single text. _glad to have u back_

 _glad to be back_ , Jo sends in reply.

And Nate knows that they’re good, they’re cool. They’re Nate and Jo. Their friendship can survive anything.

 

 

**May 26, 2016**

**Pittsburgh Penguins 2 - 1 Tampa Bay Lightning**

Nate watches the entire game. Of course he does, it’s the fucking Stanley Cup Playoffs. Four teams left, Game 7 in the Eastern Conference Final, there’s no question that he watches.

Jo scores, because of course he does. It's a rocket of a shot, spinning and shooting over Matt Murray’s glove. No look. Fucking beauty.

Still, it’s one goal short of what the Lightning need. The handshake line is sobering, the camera zooming in on Jo’s pinched face as he goes through the Penguins line. Nate watches as he gets to the last player and skates away, ducking his head as he heads down the tunnel.

He sends a short consolation text, and Jo replies with a heart emoji.

After that, Nate gives him a week to do locker cleanout and sulk and get back to Ste Agathe before texting him again.

_wanna hook up sometime this summer?_

It takes Jo a few days to reply. _can’t sorry_

_why not?_

_did some thinking while i was suspended and i don’t think we should keep fucking_

What the fuck? For a second, he considers calling Jo before realizing that this conversation will probably be a million times more excruciating if they have to listen to each other’s voices.

_why?_

Nate stares at the three little dots as Jo writes a response. It’s either a really long response, or Jo is picking his words really carefully, the way he does when he wants to swear but there’s a camera in his face.

_just don’t wanna ruin our friendship_

Before he can think of an answer—Wasn’t the fuckbuddies thing super casual _because_ it wouldn’t ruin their friendship?—Jo sends another text right on the heels of the first.

_don’t want to make things complicated. better if we just stay friends_

O-okay. Whatever. Nate isn’t going to push it. It’s not like the sex is all they have.

_ok. no sex. still wanna come to hali this summer tho?_

The fucking dots again. All Jo comes up with though is _too busy_

Nate is disappointed, though he tries not to overthink it. This isn’t the first time he’s had to go months without seeing his friends. This isn’t even the first time he’s had to go months without seeing Jo. But this _is_ the first time that Jo has turned down an opportunity to see him. He wonders if he did something wrong.

 _ok_ , he sends back, and Jo sends him a thumbs up emoji. And that is that.

 

 

**September 8-21, 2016**

**World Cup of Hockey, Toronto, Canada**

Seeing Jo again at camp for the World Cup is a fucking relief, to be honest, though Nate isn’t sure what to expect. They’ve been texting over the summer, but their last serious conversation ended on a bit of a weird note. They’re instantly cool though, the way they always are. Jo sticks by his side, bright and so, so happy, and Nate lets himself get sucked back into his eyes and his smile and the slightly arrogant tilt of his chin.

Things are getting back to normal with Jo, or at least Nate thinks so, but then Jo starts getting weird.

Sometimes they’re totally fine, laughing together during interviews and all over each other, Jo’s hand on Nate’s thigh and Nate’s arm casually slung across his shoulders. But Jo is also sometimes unexpectedly distant and moody, a little snappish before getting all apologetic and disappearing for hours.

None of it affects their on-ice chemistry, because they’re professionals, but it’s still kind of exhausting, keeping up. Nate isn’t sure how much more of this hot-and-cold stuff he can take.

He finds himself talking to Johnny of all people. Johnny Hockey, who politely asks if Nate’s roommate is around—he isn’t, Auston does things in his own time—before coming into the room and perching on Nate’s bed like some kind of large-eyed bird.

They chat a bit, and Nate is about to ask if Johnny is up for some videogames—Auston is _so bad_ Nate almost feels bad kicking his ass—when Johnny comes around to his reason for visiting.

“So...you and Jon, huh?”

Nate jumps guiltily, even though he and Jo haven’t been anything for almost a year now. “Uh?”

“Monny talked about you guys. You were drafted in the same year as him, so.” Johnny shrugs.

Yeah, Nate remembers Sean Monahan. “Uh, right.” He doesn’t think it’s a good idea to bring up the fact that they roomed together at the draft. Some things that roomies see are best forgotten.

“Are you guys okay? You and Jon.”

“What? Yeah, course. We’re fine.” They’re really not. It’s not something Johnny would understand though, on account of the fact that Nate doesn’t understand what’s wrong either.

“Okay.” Johnny is quiet, feet kicking as he munches on a bag of skittles. “Want some?” Nate takes a handful, picking out the red ones, and the sound of their chewing fills the otherwise silent room. It’s oddly soothing, candy and quiet conversation. Taste the fucking rainbow, eh. Johnny rolls his neck, a thoughtful look on his face. “You know, Monny’s a real nice guy, a good friend, but things got a little weird between us at the end of the season.”

Oh, a heart to heart. Nate can do those. He helps himself to some more skittles and listens.

“Both our contracts were expiring, and we weren’t sure if we’d both be sticking around.”

Nate nods. He’d signed his own contract extension two months ago.

“Monny signed in oh, must’ve been early July. But I haven’t yet. Still negotiating.” Johnny spreads his hands, shrugging again like contract negotiations are nothing. “I think, um, I think Monny is afraid I won’t come back.”

“Will you?” Nate almost asks, before remembering that it’s none of his business.

“We met up a few times this summer, but Monny was acting weird around me. Like, he’s hanging out with me a lot and then suddenly he pretends like we’re barely friends. It was super weird.”

Nate sits up, turning sharply to stare at Johnny. _Like Jo_ , Johnny doesn’t say, but Nate hears it anyway. Observant little guy.

Johnny sighs. “We uh, we kissed.” He peeks at Nate out of the corner of his eye. “Me and Monny. He said he was scared we’d be apart next season, so he didn’t want to get his hopes up or anything. But we’re good now, I think. I should still talk to him about it though.”

“Oh. That’s good,” Nate says.

“You should talk to Jon maybe,” Johnny says, and then they run out of skittles.

 

Nate doesn’t talk to Jo. Nate is on a line with Jo during practice, playing beautiful hockey, and Jo is shoving him playfully into the boards in between shifts. He’s pushy today, getting up in Nate’s space, his stupid smile inches from Nate’s own. Their visors bump a few times.

“Go away,” Nate says, hip-checking him gently, and Jo skates backwards laughing.

That night during their first real game of the tournament, they fucking _kill_ Finland. Nate gets a goal, Jo gets one, and it feels like magic. It feels like Halifax again, connecting on the ice and reading each other’s passes. They are so fucking ridiculous and ridiculously good.

“Holy shit,” Jo says, still giddy when they’re back at the hotel, and Nate can’t stop smiling.

He’s not sure if Jo moves first or he does, but they meet each other halfway, Jo clinging to his shoulders and pressing up against him even though they’re still in the hallway where anybody can see.

“Is your room…?” Nate says, and Jo nods.

“Yeah, yeah. Larks can sleep somewhere else tonight—”

They stumble gracelessly into Jo’s room, barely letting go of each other long enough to close the door. Nate pushes Jo up against the wall, nibbles at his lower lip and gets a good handful of ass in each hand, feeling him up shamelessly.

“Hey, do you have…?”

Jo honest to god blushes, like they haven’t done this a hundred times. “Yeah. I brought some. But uh, we have a game tomorrow.”

Right. They play Russia tomorrow, and Jo needs to be able to skate properly. “Okay. We’ll think of something.”

He kisses and nuzzles over Jo’s jaw, pauses to explore the stubble that Jo has started sporting the past couple of months. Jo is giggling, nose scrunched up happily, and he is radiant, he is fucking glowing. The sight of him takes Nate’s breath away, which is fucking embarrassing, because Nate always figured that the phrase was just a figure of speech. Nate is a cliché.

They end up on the bed naked after Jo tries to climb him for the fourth time, and _god_ Nate has missed this, missed seeing Jo so happy and pretty underneath him, offering himself to Nate.

“Spread your legs for me? Like that.” Nate holds him open, drinks in the sight of him: Jo laid out on the mattress, hair messy and mouth red, dick flushed and mostly hard against his belly.

Jo has the sweetest eyes in the whole fucking world.

Nate thinks about what they could do, lets himself get carried away in the fantasy for a second before making up his mind. “Okay, roll over for me?” he says, and Jo does, quick and eager. Nate runs his hands over the swell of his ass, bites the firm curve and kisses over the faint marks.

Jo lets out a trembling sigh when Nate’s tongue touches his hole, and Nate can feel his thighs tensing underneath him. “Easy,” Nate whispers, petting them, and waits until he feels the muscles relax before he continues.

They don’t do this often, but it’s fucking electric every time. Gets Jo shaking and crying, grinding himself against Nate’s face and muffling his cries in a pillow. Nate keeps it simple, kissing and sucking the sensitive skin around his hole and pressing as deep as he can with his tongue until Jo is letting out strangled moans like he can’t get enough air.

“Breathe,” Nate says, surfacing for a second to check on him (and to rest his jaw).

Jo turns his head, and Nate can see his glassy eyes, lashes clumping wetly together. His face is pink.

“ _Tu vais me tuer_ [You’re going to kill me],” he gasps. “ _Tu es toujours trop_ [You’re too much, always].”

Nate strokes his back, sweat gathering in the dip of his spine, and murmurs, “Breathe.”

Jo gulps in a few breaths, and Nate goes down again.

Once Nate slides a hand under Jo’s body and puts it on his dick, it’s over pretty quickly. Jo bucks into his hand, dripping and so hard he must be aching, before arching back against the blunt pressure of Nate’s tongue. He makes a frustrated, pleading sort of noise and comes messily over Nate’s fingers and the bedspread. Nate jerks him through it until he’s shaking and twisting away, still lying in what must now be a growing wet spot.

“You good, man?”

Jo rolls onto his back, nodding and looking vaguely stoned, eyes heavy. “Yeah. You need a hand?”

“Or a mouth.” Nate gives him a hopeful look, and Jo smirks.

“High maintenance.” But he opens his mouth, looks at Nate with his stupidly sweet eyes, always so ready to please him, and Nate—

Nate fucking loves him.

“Keep looking at me like that, baby,” he says, and then he kneels over Jo, one knee on either side of his head, and feeds him his cock. He’s already close, just fucks Jo’s mouth lazily, rocking into it as Jo digs his fingers into his thighs and sucks on whatever he can reach. And the whole time, he stares up at Nate, all dark eyes and blown pupils, so fucking pretty that Nate can’t look away.

“Can I...in your mouth?”

Jo pinches his thigh, a mean pinch, and Nate sighs and pulls out.

“Alright, fine. What about your neck?”

“If you clean up,” Jo says, voice hoarse and fucked out.

Nate grins. “Yeah, sure.” He doesn’t need more than a few strokes before he’s coming, striping Jo’s throat and collarbone and jaw. Some lands on Jo’s lips, and Jo licks it away without a second thought. Christ.

Nate does clean up, because he is a boy who keeps his promises even when he’s just come his brains out. The sheets are a horrible mess, completely unsalvageable, but at least the bed is big enough for them to avoid the wet spots when he’s done.

Normally at this stage they would cuddle, which is something that Nate has really grown fond of, but Jo is staring at him now with a funny look on his face. The foot between their bodies feels like the kilometers between Denver and Tampa.

Jo gets all soft and sentimental after sex, but he’s not usually moody (listen, Nate is good), which is why the somber look on his face is a bit worrying.

“ _Je suis trops faible pour vous, tu sais? Je ne peux pas disait non, même quand j'essaie_ [I’m weak for you, you know? Can’t say no even when I try].” Jo sighs deeply.

“Quit that,” Nate says. “I can’t understand.” And he wants to, more than anything. Doesn’t want to miss a single thing Jo says, even if it’s just Jo insulting his morning breath.

“ _Je te veux tellement, je ne peux pas arrêter_ [I want you so much I can’t stop myself].”

“Jo…”

Jo shakes his head. “Just talking to myself. It’s nothing.”

It doesn’t sound like nothing. Doesn’t sound like dirty talk either, which is what Nate usually assumes Jo is saying in bed when the French comes out. This sounds raw and a little sad.

“You sure about that?”

Jo curls in on himself, closing his eyes. “Yeah.” His voice is quiet. “Can you hold me? Just for tonight.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Nate says, and he does.

 

Jo avoids him for the rest of the tournament, pleasantly friendly when around others but mysteriously disappearing whenever Nate looks for him on his own. Nate isn’t sure what he did, but he doesn’t like it. He misses Jo, damn it, misses him more than he thought he would. It’s not the same, being on the ice with him when they’re not talking.

At the same time, Nate has his own little freakout to tend to, so.

It had been a spur-of-the-moment thought, the random burst of _God, I love him_ that comes when a horny dude is close to busting a nut. Still, it’s a startling thought to have about his best friend slash fuckbuddy slash soulmate. Not that Nate thinks he and Jo are actually soulmates. Platonic soulmates, maybe. Soulbuddies.

You can love your platonic soulbuddy, right? It’s not like he’s _in_ love with Jo, because that would be fucking wild.

 

 

**October 20, 2016**

**Tampa Bay Lightning 0 - 4 Colorado Avalanche**

Nathan is in love with Jo.

It’s not like he woke up one day already magically in love with him with all the answers in his head. He’s been thinking about it for like, the past month. Well, he’s been freaking out about it for the past month, frantically going back through their every interaction and trying to figure out when the warm fuzzies started.

After the game, he tries catching Jo, figures they’ll at least hang out. Maybe Nate will work up the courage to say something after a few drinks.

But Jo is being stupidly stubborn, because he doesn’t let Nate ride in his car and he doesn’t tell Nate that he’ll join him at the hotel. Jo gets in his car and Nate assumes that he drives on home to his nice little condo in Tampa, where Nate definitely isn’t. Which is like, okay, fine. It’s not like they need to be together every time they’re in the same city.

On the bus back to the hotel, he thinks about Johnny Gaudreau and Sean Monahan. Johnny did sign after all, just a couple days ago. Nate wonders if they ever had that talk.

He makes it about ten minutes in his hotel room before he calls an Uber. This is important, damn it Jo.

It’s probably pretty rude to show up at your ex-fuckbuddy and are-we-still-friend’s condo without warning, but fuck it. Jo can’t just give him the cold shoulder out of the blue, not when Nate is here struggling with these—these feelings.

Jo gives him an unhappy look when he answers the door, but he lets Nate in.

Nate had changed into shorts and a t-shirt and an Avs snapback at the hotel, but Jo is still in most of his game day suit, top buttons popped and tie askew, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His shoes and suit jacket are missing.

“What is it?” He folds his arms across his chest, which is a pretty defensive move.

Nate resists the urge to pace. “I wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

“About…” Now that he’s here, Nate is kind of chickening out. Just a little bit, okay. He needs to like, gather his balls and prepare for this shit. “Um, just wondering if we’re okay. You’ve been avoiding me and stuff. We don’t hang out anymore.”

“Every time we hang out, we fuck,” Jo points out, which is totally right.

“We do other stuff too…”

“And then we fuck.” They used to like, play videogames and go places, but yeah, they always end up having sex. It’s habit and a really nice way to end the night.

This is probably none of his business, but it’s been eating Nate up inside for a while now. “Why did you want to stop? I thought it was good. Thought you liked it. And then you said you wanted to stop, and then we fucked at the World Cup and things got weird.”

Jo’s frown deepens, but he lowers his head, staring at his socked feet. “It just wasn’t good enough anymore.”

“Did I…?”

“It wasn’t you, dude.” Jo sighs. His hands drop to his sides, and he beckons Nate into the living room, curling up in one corner of the couch. Nate takes the other side, leaving a careful three feet of space between them. He watches as Jo fiddles with the end of his tie. “Remember when I was in Montreal, earlier this year?” _When I was suspended_ , he doesn’t say.

Nate makes an affirmative noise.

“I did some thinking while I was there. And in Syracuse. About my life, and things that were making me unhappy.” He picks his words carefully, speaking slowly. “Our...whatever we were doing, it wasn’t something that I—I thought it was better if we stopped.”

“It’s not you, it’s me?” Nate tries, and Jo nods. “Okay.” God, this is frustrating. “Sorry if I...did anything.”

“You didn’t,” Jo says quickly. “The opposite, actually.”

“What do you mean?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing, Nate. It wasn’t anything you did. I changed my mind.” His eyes flick up to meet Nate’s. “Is this what you came over to talk about?”

It isn’t at all, and the thought of talking about his feelings now leaves a bitter taste in Nate’s mouth. But he’s gathered his courage and like, Johnny probably talked to Monny, yeah? Nate can do this. “Yeah. But also, um. I just wanted you to know…”

Fuck fuck fuck. He has to say the words now. Nate doesn’t go around with the habit of saying stuff like that. His brain, in a state of panic, randomly throws up a memory of Jo moaning in French as Nate fucks him which, thanks, brain. Helpful. Great timing.

Actually, it’s not a bad idea. He still has no idea what Jo has been saying all these years, but it might be less embarrassing to say in French, and this is one of the few things that Nate actually knows how to say.

Jo is arching an eyebrow, confused and waiting. Nate takes a deep breath.

“Um, _je t’aime_ [I love you].” His pronunciation is still horrible, but he hopes it’s clear.

Jo lets out a surprised, strained little laugh. “Me too. But I don’t think—um. You wouldn’t use that phrase. That’s for—” He coughs. “You’d use ‘ _Tu me manques_.’ For friends.”

“It wasn’t for friends.”

“It wasn’t—” Jo’s mouth opens and stays open, but no words come out. He looks kind of stupid, and Nate wants to kiss him so badly.

“I mean it like, you know.” Nate can feel his neck and face warming. Now would be a good time to escape to the hotel and not see Jo for another four months.

Jo bites his lip. “Who told you?” he says at last.

“Uh, I figured it out myself? After the World Cup.”

“Oh,” Jo says. His lashes are very long as he lowers his eyes. “I guess I was being pretty obvious, eh?”

What? “What?”

“That I’ve loved you for years. That the sex wasn’t enough.”

This is _really_ not where Nate thought the conversation was going. “Hold on, wait. You love me too?” He does not screech that. He absolutely does not. Nathan has dignity (sort of).

“I think...I think we have a bit more to talk about.”

 

They talk. It takes most of the night, and Nate is worn out by the end, like he put his emotions in one of those protein shake blenders which chewed them up and spit them out a little raw around the edges.

It’s a lot of awkward mumbling and a little bit of yelling and a little bit of kissing, Jo’s mouth soft and welcoming under his after all the words have dried up between them. Nate slides a hand into his hair and wraps his arm around his waist, lets Jo take his breath away.

He spends the night in Jo’s condo, curled up in Jo’s bed and actually wearing clothes for once. Before they sleep, Jo presses a gentle kiss to his lips, tentative and shy. Nate holds him close and doesn’t let go.

They’re not done yet, still have miles to go, but it’s something.

He wakes up to Jo grumpily shaking him awake and demanding kisses before he goes.

 

 

**February 19, 2017**

**Colorado Avalanche 2 - 3 Tampa Bay Lightning (OT)**

Apparently, dating Jo isn’t all that different from being best friends with benefits, except there's Skype sex and sexting and now they go on actual dates with like hand-holding and cuddling and shit. They still fuck though, every chance they get, and Jo still babbles in French and refuses to translate any of it.

“Your OT goal tonight was so good,” Nate whispers, running a hand through Jo’s hair, and Jo nearly melts at the praise.

He wraps his legs around Nate’s hips, pinning him against his body. “I know.” The stupidly fond look on his face softens his words.

Nate kisses him, leaves Jo panting and breathless before moving on to his jaw, sucking a mouth-shaped bruise on his neck. He can feel Jo’s dick, hard and trapped between their bodies, and he grinds down against it.

“Oh,” Jo sighs, and he rolls his hips up, greedy for more friction. His hands clench in the back of Nate’s shirt.

Nate laughs against his skin. “Good?”

He loves this, loves how Jo shivers beneath him and moans a little. Loves that he gets to have this again, this and so much more.

“ _Je veux tout_ [I want everything],” Jo swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing under Nate’s lips, and his voice comes out syrupy-sweet, “ _s’il te plaît_ [please].”

“Okay,” Nate says. He has no idea what Jo just said, but he can probably guess.

“ _Je t’aime_ [I love you],” Jo says, and that one—that one Nate knows.


End file.
